PRESCOTT, ARIZONA
A FEW WEEKS EARLIER
Chief of Police Henry Blake entered the mayor’s office, crossed the room, and shook hands with the portly politician.
“Good morning, Henry,” Mayor Halliday said. “What can I do for you this morning? Coffee?”
“No, thank you,” Blake said. “I’ve had my breakfast. We have something to discuss, Mr. Mayor.”
“Oh? And what would that be?”
The two men sat and eyed each other. Blake had been the mayor’s personal choice for chief of police, and believed the younger man was destined to go even further. But he also knew he had to maintain control in their relationship.
“Harlan Banks.”
The mayor frowned.
“What about him?”
“There’s a man in town looking for him.”
“For what purpose?”
“Well, he told one person he was trying to figure out whether a murder charge against Banks was true.”
“And?”
“And he told someone else Banks was a friend of his.”
“What do you believe?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, obviously you think this man is a problem,” the mayor said. “Who is it?”
“His name is Clint Adams.”
The mayor’s eyes widened.
“The Gunsmith?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s in town?”
“He is.”
“Well, what the hell . . .”
“My feeling exactly.”
“Have you spoken with the man?”
“I have not,” the chief said. “He had a talk with the sheriff.”
“That old fool?”
“Coyle actually handled himself quite well,” the chief said. “Didn’t tell Adams anything.”
“When do you expect to talk to him?”
“I expect him to come and see me later today.”
“Well, you know what you have to do, Chief,” the mayor said. “Get rid of him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I mean fast!”
“Yes sir,” the chief said. “Fast.”
* * *
Clint awoke the next morning with sunlight streaming through the window. From outside he could hear the sounds of wagons passing, people yelling back and forth, the day in a busy town getting started.
He got out of bed, walked to the window, looked out without standing directly in front of it. The main street was bustling. He stepped to the dresser to use the pitcher and basin there to clean up, then dressed, strapped on his gun, and went down to find breakfast.
Actually, breakfast was not hard to find. He decided to go back to Hannah’s, where he found the place a lot busier than the day before.
Ben spotted him when he walked in and said, “I saved you a table in the back.”
“Thanks.”
Clint walked to the back, found the table, and sat. Ben appeared with a pot of coffee and a mug, set them on the table.
“Help yerself,” he said, “I’ll be back to take your order.”
“Steak and eggs,” Clint said. “I’ll take steak and eggs.”
“Okay, comin’ up!”
Ben disappeared into the kitchen and Clint poured himself some coffee. He looked around, saw that the town loved Hannah’s food as much as he did. There were men, women, and children eating breakfast there. Some of them were looking at him curiously, but most of them were concentrating on their food.
He watched as Ben carried plates out, up and down his arms, and served them without dropping a single one. Finally, he came out carrying Clint’s plate and set it down in front of him.
“There ya go!”
“Looks good.”
Clint picked up his knife and fork and cut into the steak. Ben watched as he put the first bite into his mouth and nodded his approval, then went back to work.
Clint was halfway through his meal—including a basket of biscuits Ben had brought out—when Sheriff Artie Coyle walked in. He looked around until his eyes fell on Clint, then crossed the room to him, exchanging a few greetings along the way.
“Mornin’, Sheriff,” Clint said. “Why do I get the feeling you’re keeping a close eye on me?”
“Mind if I sit?”
“Pull up a chair,” Clint said. “Have some coffee.”
Coyle sat and poured himself a cup.
“What’s on your mind?” Clint asked.
“A warnin’, I guess.”
“About what?”
“You’re gonna go talk to the chief today, ain’t cha?” Coyle asked.
“I am.”
“You should know that him and the mayor, they got their own agendas in this town.”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“No,” Coyle said. “I ain’t got one, and I know lots of people who don’t. But them two, they’re politicians.”
“From your tone it sounds like you have the same opinion of politicians that I do.”
“I hate ’em!”
“Yeah, we feel the same, all right.”
“Well,” Coyle said, pushing back his chair, “I just wanted to let you know.”
The sheriff stood up, but didn’t leave.
“Something else?” Clint asked.
Coyle hesitated. Clint felt the man had something else he wanted to say, but perhaps couldn’t figure out how to say it.
“No,” he finally said, turned, and left.
Something was on the lawman’s mind. Maybe after a few hours to think it over, while Clint talked with the chief, he might find a way to say what he wanted to say.